


Songs of a Wild Dog

by Tybaxel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deadlock McCree, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Torture, Violence, other characters won't show up until later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tybaxel/pseuds/Tybaxel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of memories better off forgotten, unspoken of outside Jesse McCree's wandering mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs of a Wild Dog

Filthy. That’s what the air was - the sun had long passed behind the horizon, but even in sleep the summer remained relentless. Hot dirt was thick in the atmosphere. You inhaled more grit than you did oxygen, and what little oxygen you could get was milked from the dry breezes like a precious juice from a dying pulp. The wind brought less satisfaction than it did frustration; less relief from a beating white sun and more sand draining the moisture from unprotected eyes. 

Jesse McCree was long accustomed to the conditions. That was life in the southwest. Not once had he set foot beyond the borders of his home state in his few years of life - he had no reason to. He sometimes questioned his decisions, but he often reminded himself that he took lungs full of dirt with the rest of the New Mexico terrain. The sky remained blue through the day and black through the night, illuminated by clear stars unaffected by unnatural lighting or fumes that clouded their rays. Clouds were a rarity, rain was unheard of. And even so, dry ground and hot air were no real issue to Jesse. The horizon was never flat - it curved and dipped with the peaks of the mountains and cliffs that butchered its shape. Wild brown grasses adorned the earth in clumps, and there was only one small, flowering tree in the town square for miles. Every building had chipped paint and rusted doors, untended for likely a century. The night was never silent, as the songs of cicadas and coyotes kept it pulsing with life. It could be considered unappealing. Jesse thought otherwise.

The boy spat a wad of gum into the dirt. He was perched on top of a stone wall bordering the exterior of an old Spanish diner, facing the far outskirts of town. It was night - the townsfolk slept. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Jesse McCree was thirteen years old. Thirteen and a third, if you wanted specifics. Although anxious about being mistaken for younger, his appearance reflected his age fairly well - a round, freckled face only just beginning to gain definition, framed by shoulder-length, mousy brown hair, slick with grease and tousled by the chipped leather hat he kept on his person like a security blanket. Though thin, he stood at five and a half feet, with lean muscle accompanying broad shoulders and powerful arms. He was also filthy - black dirt caked his clothes and skin in such a way that it was impossible to determine the last time he had washed. And yet, he retained a certain indescribable charm. He had no one to guide him down the right path, after all - a lone mutt, he was, and had been for the past four years. His mama passed when he was only nine. He never knew his father, and he didn't dwell on it.

His eyes flicked over to a rusted clock nailed to an old curio store across the dirt street. Just after eleven, it said. Its credibility was questionable, considering its age, but the numbers didn’t matter. It was late enough to safely do what he came here for.

Like a cat, the boy dropped from his post. Grit crunched under his boots, but his steps were light. He’d picked up some techniques in his time on the streets, ones that without he’d have his hide pinned to the sheriff’s wall. He glanced to one side, down a dirt road leading into town. The only light provided was the glow of a saucer moon and a flickering neon sign, neglected to be switched off by the shop owner. All windows were dark. He had no reason to fear being watched - the townsfolk knew better than to wander streets that, upon nightfall, were owned by thugs and gangs that dotted the terrain for miles.

Adjusting his hat, Jesse strode the first block, thumbs tucked beneath a thick belt that secured his revolver - a shitty one, rust licking the sharp edges and peeling the long-faded metal coating, but one he felt was a sin to abandon in favor of another. It had belonged to his mama - one she’d kept by her bedside while they slept, prepared to pull the trigger at anyone who dared threaten her or her child. He felt a surge of courage and security with it at his hip, as if it embodied one last piece of her after she’d passed. She’d been a young lady - frail, but encasing the soul of someone four times the size. She had a gentle voice, a thick accent that cooed words of comfort and encouragement to him, one that directed him in learning to read and write, one that whispered Spanish lullabies into his ear as he slept. He'd looked into her loving gaze each day, and yet now he had difficulty remembering her face, her voice. All he could clearly recall were her eyes - a warm golden-brown like the Santa Fe sands, glowing with motherly love and endearment. They burned like bullet holes in the back of his mind, like an angel on his shoulder, watching him make his choices and actions. They never spoke - they only observed. It was what made Jesse uneasy, second-guess himself. It made him feel guilt - an emotion that plagued him ruthlessly, and with reason.

He had a lot of things to be guilty of since his mother’s passing. He'd been prematurely struck with independence as a young boy, given the task of running his own life before he was old enough to understand it. Money wasn’t offered to nine-year-olds with no work experience, and he had none to begin with, having lived his life in what was but a small upgrade from a shack, his mama scraping up dough from the pomegranates she would grow, unable to do work due to her frequent illness.

So, he stole. He was quick on his feet, knowing the town better than his own name after years of navigating it. He knew the best places to hide, the best ways to evade wandering eyes, the best ways to pick even the most stubborn of locks. The entire local area knew his name before he’d even turned ten, and yet he had mastered the art of outrunning even the most sharp-eyed officers. Food, tools, money, weapons - you name it, and he’d managed to smuggle it without much trouble. It saved and risked his life all at once. He had no hope of acquiring even the lowest-paying of jobs, not with the name that he'd made for himself - his way of life was a permanent choice. It worked for him. And so he continued to do so for the following four years. He knew it was wrong. He could feel those disappointed, golden-brown eyes glaring into his soul as if they belonged to the Lord himself. Though, with each passing day he’d gradually grown numb to it. Feeling less remorse for those more fortunate than him, those who clawed and grasped hungrily for things he’d taken from their giant surpluses, a mere chip off their gold. You either found a way to take care of yourself or you perished under the pulsing New Mexico sun. That was life in the southwest.

He passed a crinkled poster nailed to a bulletin board outside a grocery market. It wasn’t the first time he’d passed one of these, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last - he had just failed to pay too much attention to them until now. It was a sheet from the local police department. In thick, bolded letters were his name and a rather poor description of his appearance (his age was listed as 12 - the audacity). An unflattering photo also adorned the center of the page. It was old - likely taken years ago, when someone happened to snap a picture of him clutching the brim of his hat in a breeze, staring blankly at the camera from some distance away. The fact that this was their best picture of him further proved he was slick with butter. They were offering 10k to anyone who managed to catch him. He snorted. He knew it would be easier on him if he just dropped the hat, the kerchief - all the regular old filthy attire he so often wore that became beacons whenever he happened to leave his secluded shelter, if you could even call it such. Again, it all boiled down to the sheer inability to do so, the way it felt like a sin to abandon such garments.  _ Funny, _ he often thought, considering he had a lot of experience with betraying God.

He rounded a corner, batting away moths and other nameless summer creatures buzzing in his eyes. Upon the stone facade of an abandoned tire shop was fairly fresh, black airbrush paint, portraying a large, smooth image with crisp edges - a glaring black skull adorned by feathered wings, a padlock in its teeth, flanked by chipped banners bearing black text that marked the area like claw lines on bark. He knew Deadlock - hell, everyone did. Arguably the most well-known crime organization in the American southwest, a talented group operating in illegal weapon and drug trade, stealing from the military and birthing a whole new level of hell. They considered themselves rebels - individuals outcasted by society, spit on by social class, rubbed in the dirt by their own country. Surfacing months before the omnics went ballistic, they turned against their own country for not taking note of the machines’ erratic behavior, blaming the military for the sudden uprising and thus working against them. They were talented, resourceful, smoothly evading the law before they even had a chance to register they were there in the first place. They sold to few and accepted even fewer - they were picky about their recruits. It wasn’t a club for amateurs. Jesse saw them in the same way another boy would view a famous baseball player - he looked upon them with bright eyes, a look of fascination, admiration. His morality prodded at him, begging him to think otherwise, but with the carefree outlook he’d adopted after his mama’s death, he had little to no care. The thugs fascinated him - he’d often observed them patrolling the streets at night, their presence keeping civilians behind bolted doors. The way they handled their weapons was flawless. No matter the bulk, they were handled as if they were an extra appendage, something they naturally knew how to operate. While he had little knowledge of what sorts of things they did behind closed walls, he often dreamt of what the lifestyle would be like.

He wasn’t out on another one of his thievery missions. He had a plan, but it was conducted out of pure curiosity - all the curiosity you would expect a boy of his age to have about such questionable, dangerous subjects that can’t help but draw attention to themselves. He knew where Deadlock thugs dropped by for drinks, a drag on a cigarette, a place to spar on bar counters and smash bottles of whiskey over their comrades’ heads without having to worry about the law hindering their leisure. After all, no one dared approach the bar without leaving with a hide full of holes.

Jesse stalked towards the building with caution, careful as to where he set each foot as he made his way to the door. It was a small structure, constructed with wooden planks likely painted at one point, but had since been chipped and faded back to their original dull color. Steel beams held up what was once a sign for the bar it had been before it likely went out of business - faded yellow characters whose lights had long since burnt out, spelling out what was probably “San Ángel Inn”, though missing several of its letters. The windows were sealed over with black cloth emblazoned with Deadlock’s winged skull, preventing any view of the interior. Faint light seeped through, however, suggesting that whoever had been there last had failed to switch off the lights. From the outside, it was silent. He had observed them long enough to know they didn’t use the bar on Sundays, for whatever reason. He didn’t need an answer, anyway - all he needed to know was that the place was empty, and that was enough for him. He reached for the door handle, giving it a quick jostle. Locked, as expected. His eyebrows knitted together as he fumbled with his pockets, eventually withdrawing a small ring box, secured with a latch. Upon popping the lid would one find his stash of makeshift picks, carefully constructed with materials likely found embedded in the dirt. They weren’t impressive, but they had done the job for him thus far.

The lock was surprisingly easy to break; he’d been expecting at least some form of a challenge, especially coming from such a notorious organization - but, alas, the door swung open with little effort, soft light pouring from the interior, causing him to squint as his eyes adjusted to the sudden shift in brightness.

Guns. That was the first thing Jesse saw, and there wasn’t just one. They lined the walls in neat rows, all varying appearances, polished and loaded like they belonged to a soldier. In fact, they were the nicest-looking detail of the entire room. Overturned stools littered the place, shards of shattered glass and splashes of beer embedded within the grains of the floorboards. A dusty jukebox sat on the far wall, whispering an upbeat, muffled tune of several decades ago, barely audible. Bottles of alcohol filled the shelves behind the counter. The atmosphere reeked of cigarette smoke and oak, but also of a remarkably foul odor he couldn’t pin a name on. The place was definitely well-used - taken care of, less so. And yet, he found himself drawn to it.

Although wary, Jesse made his way inside. The boards creaked painfully with age under his weight, and with a sudden burst of anxiety he turned to yank the door shut, careful of letting any stray sounds escape the building. He’d learned to grow fearful of the streets at night, to keep his ears and eyes peeled for even the tiniest of details that could draw eyes to him like sharks to blood. His front teeth saw into his bottom lip, but even with discomfort tugging at his nerves he remained utterly baffled and captivated by the place, curiosity gripping him with an inescapable hold. He crinkled his nose as another waft of what he was now assuming to be rotting meat slunk past, but with caution he stalked forward. He was prey in the predator’s line of fire - lucky for him, he was an awful slippery hare.

As he began to see the bar from varying angles, he took note of other small details besides the obvious - dartboards with unrecognizable faces pinned to the bullseye, stashes of lewd magazines, a pool table riddled with bullet holes through the faded green fabric. He swallowed audibly, fingers fumbling subconsciously with the lever of his revolver. He mentally asked himself his reasons for being such a chickenshit - after all, the only reason he was here was out of sheer curiosity, and here he was second-guessing himself once again. His mama’s eyes stared unblinking into his backside. He cursed them, shoving them to the back of his head to be forgotten. His muddy brown gaze sweeps across the back wall. There, another one of Deadlock’s unmistakable logos is splayed across a good chunk of the surface, the chipped, faded white paint hinting its age. The gang had been in charge of this joint for a remarkable amount of time, it seemed, and with no trouble from the law.  _ Lazy _ , Jesse thought, running his tongue along his teeth. The local sheriff had neglected to handle the town’s crime properly since the omnics supposedly gained a consciousness. Perhaps it was why the streets were littered with such organizations. That was life in the southwest. He scoffed to himself, turning on his heels.

Anxiety seemed to have watered down his sense of direction, as he found himself walking into an overturned barstool. Startled, he grabbed the legs before it could topple over, preventing a rather nasty crash. He exhaled, wiping the back of his hand across a damp brow - he hadn't realized how much he'd been sweating.  _ Pull yourself together, damn you.  _ Setting the seat aside, Jesse’s peripheral caught onto a glint of steel on the bar counter before him - a pistol. Polished spotless, upon further investigation, lined along the edges with softly lit bulbs, silver-lined roses emblazoned along the handle. It was a gorgeous weapon, carefully crafted by a skilled hand. Spanish was scrawled across the side of the barrel -  _ los muertos guiará mis pasos.  _ ‘May the dead guide my steps’. Obviously not from a local weaponry; likely stolen. Jesse’s fingers brushed the surface tentatively before he took it by the handle, turning it over and over in his hands as he admired the work put into it. A low whistle escaped his lips. His index finger slipped in front of the trigger, testing the fit of an unfamiliar weapon.

_ "You hold it like this,  _ mijo _ ,”  _ his mama told him gently, placing her rusty revolver in his small hands, wrapping his fingers around the handle. It was an old memory, one he’d long forgotten. The first time he’d handled a gun he had to have been no older than five - and yet, he was determined to use one like he’d been born with the knowledge. The images replayed in his head - with two trembling hands did little Jesse aim, biting his tongue with intense focus, determined to impress his mama. He staggered backwards the first time he pulled the trigger, startled by the sound and the feeling of the weapon reeling in his grasp. The bullet failed to strike the makeshift target they’d set up - an old knapsack of rotten fruits that didn’t survive the previous winter. It cut through dry air, vanishing before he even had a chance to register its presence. His mama steadied him from behind, placing two warm hands upon his shoulders before they folded neatly over his own, helping to still his shaky grip. “ _ Relax, darling. _ ”

With his mama’s assistance, Jesse fired his first shot.  _ Click, bang.  _ The first shot sliced through the center of the sack, violet stains blossoming behind the fabric as the bullet lodged itself within its interior. A surge of pride overcame the boy, and he burst into a fit of giggles -  _ “I did it, mama! I did it!”  _ He faintly recalls his mother’s laughter at his enthusiasm, urging him to try again on his own. He grew used to the noise, his shots sloppy but well-displaying his excitement.

_ Click. Bang. Click. Bang. _

Click.

Eyes burnt white-hot holes into his back. They weren’t his mother’s.

“Drop it.” A gruff demand, spat from hateful lips. The barrel of a gun prodded at his nape. Jesse was silent. He immediately heeded to the request, calloused fingers unwrapping from the pistol as it struck the countertop with a heavy thud. The end of the unseen weapon shoves the back of his head, forcing it down and aligning his gaze with the floor. His hat falls. Dark splotches stain the wood. He hadn’t noticed them before.

He hears the sharp cracking of a neck, a working jaw. The subtle clicks of a steady finger toying with the trigger. “Name.”

He opens his mouth, but no sound escapes. Seconds drag past before the barrel taps his head once again, aggressive and hungry. “ _ Name _ , boy.”

“Jesse,” he replied, voice cracking. His eyes began to burn - he was forgetting to blink.

The smack of something wet rang out behind him. Chewing tobacco, by the smell of it. “McCree?” he’s asked for clarification.

“Yessir.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could sense the smirk pulling at the other’s lips. As if they’d been waiting on him to show up. It would definitely explain the dinky lock on the door.

The silence nips at Jesse like a winter chill. The track changes on the muffled jukebox across the room. He could hear his assailant fumbling with something behind him, muttering some indecipherable string of words, keeping the barrel of the gun secured neatly against the back of his head. He hears static, white noise. The fucker’s likely contacting his comrades.

“You quite the celebrity ‘round here, ain’t ya?” Another tap. The gun doesn’t pull away. “Your mug’s posted all over the damn place. Gettin’ yourself into trouble wherever you set foot. Seems it ain’t exclusive to grocery markets.”

Jesse says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s chewed the inside of his cheek to the point of tasting blood, his fingers tapping the countertop as waves of anxiety racked his body in quick bursts.

“Not much of a talker?” The voice was laced with dark amusement. “I'll tell ya what - you start explainin’ yourself real fast and you’ll be outta here without a bullet through your brains. How's that sound?”

“Yessir. My bad, sir.”

“Why’re ya here.”

“I-” Jesse swallowed. “I dunno, sir.”

Another tap, rougher this time - more so a smack, like a child scolding another on a school playground. “Don't gimme that bullshit, boy - there ain’t nobody who goes bustin’ on in here just for shits and giggles.” He smacks his tobacco loudly. “You lucky you're a kid. Would’a put two bullets in your head by this point, one for trespassin’ and another for lyin’. You’re on your last strike, McCree.”

Screwing his eyes shut, Jesse sifted through the millions of thoughts lighting his mind at the moment, scrabbling desperately for some kind of answer. An excuse, at least. Something to get him out of this - God curse his fear.

“I was just...just lookin’, ‘s all.” His nails press crescents into the wooden surface of the bar counter. He felt a splinter lodged in the pad of his finger. “I just wanted t’ see what was inside. I was gonna leave toot-sweet.”

A cackle burst from his assailant’s throat, causing him to flinch. The barrel pushes harder against his skin, leaving a ringed imprint. “What, empty-handed?” A click of the tongue. “You’re gonna have to try better than that, son. No right man goes pickin’ locks just for a peek at what’s inside.”

More static. Fast-muttered English and Spanish spliced together, too quick for Jesse to decipher. His neck aches. He can see black creeping at the corners of his swimming vision, threatening him with blissful unconsciousness. He bites his tongue to keep himself on his feet, not knowing where he might end up once he wakes.

“Ten thousand US dollars, huh?” He hears from behind him suddenly, snapping him out of his daze. “Ain’t an impressive amount, but dough is dough. You done broke the law plenty of times, haven’t ya?”

No response.

“ _ Tsk, tsk _ .” Another laugh. “You don’t got a flyin’ idea of how easy it’d be for me to send ya off to the sheriff, get my hands on some free cash. I could use it right ‘bout now. You want that?”

Jesse was silent. He could feel the gun shifting positions, the barrel slinking up to his right temple as his assailant moved with it, heavy boots thumping against the floorboards as he knelt by his side. His peripheral eyed tinted aviators, a hat similar to his own, a face dusted with stubble. The man’s breath was hot on his neck. He spit out his tobacco.

“Listen to me, kiddo, ‘cause I ain’t repeatin’ shit,” he said dryly, tapping the gun against Jesse’s temple. “You’re good. Your skills are pretty damn amateur, but you’re real good. You got street smarts. Potential. I like it about you. We all do, y’know.”

He heard the crunching of grit under tires outside, the thumping of a bass, the low rumble of an engine.

“Here’s my proposal.” Another pop of the jaw. “Most ain’t lucky enough to slip past me without a bullet, let alone get offered an invitation into our lil’ club. You’ll need to earn your keep, o’course, but since it interested you  _ so _ much, you can start by working back there -” he jabs a thumb behind the bar counter “- and pourin’ us some drinks. Hell, if you behave I’ll let you try some’a the shit. And you’ll need a bit of an upgrade before you even dream about workin’ for Deadlock.” He prods at his mama’s revolver, still secured into its holster on his belt. The gesture sends a chill skittering down Jesse’s spine, as if the guy had brushed against his core. He said nothing as his assailant continued, “Either that, or we’re havin’ you dropped off at the sheriff’s door. I don’t got any issues either way. You try anything smart, you’re dead. Obviously not ideal - I’d hate to waste a mighty fine addition to the team.”

The door swung open, slamming against the wall with an ungraceful thud. The crisp night air rushed in, and for the first time in a significantly long time, Jesse felt cold.

The voice of his assailant was smiling, dripping with poison. “What’ll it be, boy?”

What felt like tens of hundreds of new pairs of eyes grazed into his core from the entrance. Snickers lifted above the atmosphere, thick with tension that constricted his breath. Among him he felt the sad, golden stare of his mama - he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Was she sympathizing with him? Disappointed? Pleading for him to make a decision he didn’t know how to handle? He didn’t know what she would’ve wanted. He didn’t know what  _ he _ wanted. Minutes ago he was dreaming of what running with a pack would be like, and now he had their teeth bared at his throat, fangs hovering over his jugular as they offered him the choice of life or death.

The jukebox track changes. He swallows.

“I-” His breath caught in his throat, his soft brown eyes screwed shut. He may have been on his own, but he was still a child. Unaware of the dangers that the world had in store for him, and reasonably fearful of it.  “I...I-I don’t see no problem with workin’ for ya, sir. I promise I’ll behave. I’ll work real hard. Cross my heart.”

The barrel withdrew from his temple almost immediately. A fist snatched him by the collar, eliciting a yelp as he was whipped around to face his assailant. His hat is suddenly secured back atop his head, lifted from the floor by the man’s quick hand. The same hand lifts his chin, smacks him playfully across the chest. He stares into a rotten smile - feral eyes burn into him behind silver aviators.

He should’ve seen this coming sooner or later. After all - that was life in the southwest.

“Smart kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this fic as an excuse to dish out all my Deadlock/younger McCree headcanons!  
> My tumblr and twitter are both Tybaxel, so you can follow me there for more updates on the story. Thank you for reading!


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